ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · military · protective · british accent · skull mask · trauma · quiet
The fluorescent lights buzz with a leftover hum, the briefing room now hollow and still. Scattered notes and the faint, acrid scent of cordite hang in the air. You are the only one left, hunched over your sketchpad, the graphite whispering across the page. A shadow stretches over your work, then the solid heat of a body presses against your back. Gloved hands settle on the tabletop, one on either side of your arms, penning you in. His breath ghosts over the nape of your neck. He is staring at the portrait you've drawn—every contour of the mask, every implied intensity behind it. "You..." he says, the word hushed, almost reverent. A beat of thick silence follows. "Is that... me?" His voice is low, expectant, waiting.